


Carswell's Guide to Family Reunions

by Zissa



Category: Lunar Chronicles - Marissa Meyer
Genre: F/M, Family, Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6172999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zissa/pseuds/Zissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorne has plenty of concerns on his plate post-revolution, from piloting lessons to paying off the Rampion to learning how to actually captain a crew, but those details become the least of his worries when he's ambushed by a familiar face during a shipping delivery in his hometown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fancy Meeting You Here

General Kingsley Thorne had never been fond of the Rampion class cargo ships. They were bulky and squat with none of the raw power of the fighters he had flown during his military career or the streamlined elegance of the racers he watched from his private viewing box at the track. They were bare-bones functionality without a single bolt or rivet wasted on aesthetics. His own personal hover probably cost more. They were…common. Cheap. Certainly well beneath him.  
And yet he'd spent the last thirty minutes staring at one as if it were the most fascinating vehicle in the universe.  
Though, to be fair, this wasn’t just a Rampion…this was the Rampion. Even if the serial number stamped across the starboard bulkhead in bright, fresh paint hadn’t told him that, the bullet scars carved into her hull would have. This was the ship that had evaded every military on the planet for months, that had harbored the Lost Queen, that had spearheaded the revolution…and—more importantly—it was his son’s ship.  
Kingsley dodged one of the many small service androids that seemed to be forever underfoot on the landing strip and stepped around the starboard bulkhead, tracing his fingers over one of the long grooves cut into the plating. He wondered briefly where the ship had acquired that particular scar and if Carswell had been aboard at the time. If the bullet that had skimmed along the metal could’ve just as easily sliced through his son. Kingsley frowned at the hideous thought and retracted his hand.  
He was stalling and he knew it, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to actually approach the crew of the ship he’d spent the last half hour examining. As it was, he blended right into the chaos that surrounded the ship—the dozens of androids swarming in and out of the cargo bay with crates of leutemosis antidote, the other spectators who seemed just as entranced by the ship as Kingsley was pretending to be, the cranky dock workers who were less than thrilled to be a part of the mess—and hadn’t yet been forced to make contact. He had been free to watch. To observe the people his son lived with and the ship he captained...though he had yet to spot the boy himself.  
“I realize it was short notice, but—What do you mean, you can’t get it here? It’s Los Angeles! In the middle of the growing season!” To the best of Kingsley’s knowledge, that was the pilot who stood at the end of the Rampion’s loading ramp. Or at least, if the shiny pair of wings pinned to her shirt were any indication, she was. Though, thus far, all Kingsley had seen her do was growl into her portscreen about a produce mix up with their supply allotment.  
The other crewman had been a little more surprising. Kingsley had been aware of the rumors, of course…The military grapevine had had a field day with the notion of President Vargas leasing a Rampion to an ex-con. A thousand wild stories about the crew that manned such a ship had sprung up within days of the news, but Kingsley had never put too much stock in the story about the two-headed Lunar engineer or the cyborg first mate with three metal arms. Apparently, he should’ve paid a bit more attention to the one about the wolf man.  
“We can probably survive without the eggplant.” The wolf man smiled, his lips curling back just enough to expose the very tips of what appeared to be fangs as he ushered the last of the loaded-down service androids out of the cargo bay. The pilot merely glowered as she shoved her port into her back pocket.  
“Oh, no! Not the eggplant!” Kingsley tensed at the bellow that echoed from down the dockyard’s central corridor and snuck a furtive glance over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the voice’s owner. “We’re doomed without the eggplant!”  
Carswell.  
Kingsley’s heartbeat hitched in his chest at the sight of the man who emerged from the dock manager’s office at the far end of the docking range, something akin to relief washing over him. It had been one thing to read the reports proclaiming that his son had come through the revolution that ravaged two worlds safe and sound…it was quite another to see him striding down the row of ships, just as bright and cocky and alive as he’d ever been, despite the horrors he’d dodged.  
Kingsley let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in, the unconscious tension between his shoulder blades ebbing away now that he had seen what he had come to see. A part of him wanted nothing more than to lunge across the tarmac and tackle the boy in a hug, just to prove to himself that it was real, but he tamped down the urge. There was no sense getting this close, only to scare him off. They hadn’t parted on good terms the last time they had met…Kingsley had no doubt that such a familiarity on his part would put Carswell on the run faster than any arrest warrant or jealous girlfriend ever had.  
There was a tiny slip of a girl at Carswell’s side, with her arm looped through his and trotting to keep pace with his swaggering stride, but grinning at the eggplant conversation all the same. Kingsley bit down a knowing smirk. Somehow, that wasn’t surprising. He couldn’t remember a time when Carswell didn’t have one girl or another on his arm. If anyone could squeeze in time for romance while simultaneously fighting a war, it would be Carswell Thorne.  
The girl blew a sweaty wisp of blonde hair from her face as they joined the other two in a tight knot at the end of the loading ramp. “Aside from the eggplant, I think we’re good.” She consulted the oversize portscreen in her arms and tapped out a series of deft commands. “The last of androids just checked in, so the med shipment is squared away and the other supplies we requested should be aboard.”  
“Oh, good! We can leave.” Carswell clapped his hands together triumphantly and took a hasty step up the gangplank, his smile just a tinge too brittle to be genuine. Neither the pilot nor the wolf man appeared to have noticed, but the blonde frowned. Kingsley frowned, too, a pang of disappointment twinging in his chest. The boy had only been in his home town for half an hour—he hadn’t dropped by the house or made any effort to see any of his family—but he was already chomping at the bit to escape.  
“In another thirty minutes, we can. The produce company’s sending over a substitute for the eggplant I ordered.” The pilot corrected. She blew out a sigh and reached up to tug at the neck of her t-shirt. “Stars, it’s hot here…”  
“It’s Los Angeles; it’s always hot here.” Carswell flashed a smirk, but the amusement in his tone didn’t fully reach his eyes.  
“Very hot.” The wolf man rumbled in agreement. He smirked then, casting a sly glance over at Carswell. “If you don’t watch it, all that hair gel’s going to evaporate.”  
“See, that’s what I love about this crew—the real, genuine concern we have for each other’s well-being. You know, it’s truly touching sometimes.” Carswell rolled his eyes. “Look, we’re going to be in Phoenix tomorrow—can’t you just pick up eggplant, then?”  
“We could, but the delivery driver’s already en route.” The pilot narrowed her eyes shrewdly at him. “Why? Are we in a hurry?”  
“Well, not exactly, but—“Carswell launched into what Kingsley assumed was a litany of excuses punctuated by wildly flailing gestures and increasingly dramatic facial expressions, though he was speaking so quickly that Kingsley couldn’t pick out the words. He sighed. Whether or not he could understand the speech, the sentiment was clear: his window of opportunity was closing. If he was going to anything more than lurk in the background, hoping to catch glimpses of his wayward son from afar, this was the time. Now or never…  
“Carswell.” His voice came out more strident than he intended, echoing sharp and hard off the ships around them. Perhaps it was habit. He had spent most of his life bellowing orders, but he cursed inwardly when Carswell flinched at the sound, tensing as if he’d been backhanded across the face. He turned slowly to face Kingsley, his hands balling into fists and his lips drawing down into a strained frown. Kingsley’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. He never had been able to say the right thing when it came to his son. Even now, when there were so many things to say, he had no idea how to voice them. To explain how happy he was to see his boy alive, how proud he was that he captained his own ship, how glad he was to see him happy in a legal enterprise for once…A thousand thoughts flashed across his mind, but all he could muster were two simple words. They weren’t enough. But maybe they were a start.  
“Welcome home.”


	2. Chapter 2

Carswell Thorne was not often speechless.

He had always prided himself on his skill in silver-tongued flattery and swiftly crafted one-liners, no matter the situation he landed in. It was the best weapon in his arsenal, the first he reached for in a crisis, and it had completely abandoned him the instant he'd turned around to see his father looming out of the shadows of the Rampion's landing gear.

All the air had rushed out of his lungs as if sucked away by a vacuum, and a numb sort of shock settled over him as he watched Kingsley saunter closer. He'd been afraid this would happen. That was the risk he ran in coming to Los Angeles. Not that he had much of a choice in where leutemosis outbreaks occurred, but he still would've preferred San Diego or Sacramento or  _literally anywhere_  that didn't already have an unhealthy population of Thornes. He had worried over the possibility of running afoul of his family since the instant their flight orders had popped up among his daily comms, but now...now that nagging sense of unease had grown into a riotous tangle of nerves that sat heavy in the pit of his stomach.

His father was  _here_.

His father was here and striding up to the gangplank as if nothing had changed. Carswell felt himself straighten, his body snapping to respectful attention out of habit. His jaw clenched and his hands balled into fists, the leather gloves he wore around the docks to protect the finish on his cybernetics squeaking with the force of the movement. How could his father just...show up here? Without a call, without a comm, without any sort of previous indication that he'd suddenly gotten over the snit he'd been in ever since Thorne's trial.  _Why_  would he just show up here? Carswell swallowed hard, his gaze hardening. He'd never his father to do anything without a reason. Maybe he was here on military business or to deliver a message from President Vargas or maybe even—

"Welcome home."

Carswell blinked. Welcome home? What kind of opener was that? Carswell bristled at the words, his shocked frown drawing down into a scowl. Los Angeles hadn't been  _home_  since the day he'd swaggered out the door en route to boot camp and heard the door slam behind him. It hadn't been  _home_  since the day his trial ended and he had watched his father sweep out of the courtroom, his fiercely protected dignity barely holding back the rage so clearly betrayed by his white knuckles and grinding teeth. It hadn't been  _home_  since the day his parents had washed their hands of him, it certainly wasn't  _home_  now, and if Kingsley thought showing up and acting like everything was fine was enough to make it home again after all that had happened in between, then—

"Carswell." A pair of dainty hands closed around his elbow and he started. Carswell glanced down to find Cress looking up at him with concerned eyes, while Scarlet and Wolf closed ranks around them in a close, protective knot. Cress glanced briefly between his face and his father's, recognition sparking in her eyes. His shoulders slumped. She knew. Carswell's lips twisted upward in a brief, rueful smile. A smile tinged very faintly with pride. Of course she knew. Cress knew everything, after all. Especially everything—and everyone—that could’ve turned up in his personnel files. And while the knowledge that that was one less person he would have to explain his dysfunctional war zone of a family to was reassuring, it created a whole new set of problems. “ _Carswell._ ” She repeated softly, her hands tightening reassuringly on his arm and her tone a gentle order to calm down.

Carswell sighed. He didn’t _want_ to calm down. He wanted to flee into his ship, pull up the gangplank as if it were the drawbridge to his own personal fortress, and rocket off into the sunset. But if _Cress_ wanted him to calm down…

“What are you doing here?” His voice came out tight and guarded, and if he caught a flash of disappointment in his father’s eyes at the sharpness of it, then…then he must have imagined it.

“Looking for you.” Kingsley schooled his features quickly, that brief glimpse of hurt vanishing as quickly as it had come. Aside from being weirdly emotional, he looked much the same as the last time Carswell had seen him. The same dark hair, though it was more heavily threaded with gray than he remembered. The same rigidly perfect posture. The same crisp blue uniform—though there were now four stars twinkling on his lapel instead of three—and the same piercing blue eyes. Those eyes had always been the worst part. He hadn't often been the center of his father's attention, but it had always been painfully obvious when he was. Carswell could feel the intensity of that stare—or glare, depending on the situation—from a mile away. Today, it was neither. Today, his father's gaze was just as intense as ever, but there was something... _different_ about it. It felt less like scrutiny and more like…relief. Carswell wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “You aren’t the easiest boy to catch up with.”

“Well, you haven’t been trying very hard.” Carswell replied coolly, his eyes narrowing at the aggravatingly familiar “boy” tossed in the middle of the sentence. Kingsley flinched. “Our shipping schedule isn’t classified and before that, the last time I spent any real time on Earth, I was in prison, which is pretty much the easiest place _ever_ to find someone, so—“

“Okay, hold up here—“Scarlet was suddenly there, wedging herself in between Carswell and the edge of the gangplank, half to form a protective barrier between him and Kingsley and half to cut off whatever regrettable things were about to come flying out of Carswell’s mouth. “Who is this?”

Carswell huffed a resigned sigh, stripping off his gloves to rake a hand through his hair. He’d half forgotten that the rest of his crew was still there, looking on with suspicious eyes (Wolf) and protective glares (Scarlet), and he truly wished they weren’t. Two halves of his life that were never supposed to meet were being thrown together around him and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Guys, this is—“

“Carswell…your _hand_.” Kingsley broke in, his eyes glued to the pair of cybernetic fingers flashing in the sun and his voice almost hushed with concern. Carswell shoved his hands into the pockets of his flight jacket as fast as he could, but his father merely frowned. His gaze sharpened, scanning Carswell up and down as if afraid that there were other missing pieces he had failed to notice. Kingsley lifted a hand as if to reach for him and prove to himself that Carswell wasn’t about to crumble away from some other hidden injury, but he pulled it back, letting it fall limply back to his side. “What happened?”

“Funny little thing called a revolution. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

Kingsley pursed his lips, but didn’t retort, so Carswell forged ahead. “Scarlet Benoit, Ze’ev Kesley, Cress Darnel—” He indicated each in turn before nodding grimly towards Kingsley. “My father, Kingsley Thorne.”

Utter silence fell then, broken only by the whirring engines and hollow yells that underscored every conversation held in a dock yard. Carswell gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to bolt. He could practically _hear_ the thoughts that had to be running through the others’ minds as they compared him to the man in front of them. As they looked at the shiny medals pinned to his father’s uniform and weighed them against the _leased_ ship and commuted prison sentence that remained the only real accomplishments Carswell had to his name. Half of the fears he had harbored about running into his family here had been about this very moment. He’d been watching people measure him against his father ever since he could remember…and he’d always fallen short.

“—and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Carswell’s thoughts snapped back to attention when he realized Cress was speaking. He looked up to find her perching on the edge of the gangplank so that she could be at eye-level with Kingsley when she shook his hand. She stole an encouraging glance back at Carswell. “You must be very proud to have a hero in the family.”

Kingsley opened his mouth, then paused as if floundering for the exact words he wanted before finally clamping his lips shut again. Carswell would’ve snorted if the silence hadn’t stung so much. He’d never seen his father tongue-tied before. He’d have to remember to thank Cress for that later.

“It is good to see you again, Carswell.” Kingsley cleared his throat, apparently recovered enough from his dumbstruck moment to continue. “Your mother and I were… _concerned_ …by your disappearance.”

“That’s nice.” He was a little surprised they’d noticed, actually.

“We were hoping that you—and your crew, naturally—“Kingsley added, though Carswell suspected it was more of an afterthought than an intentional invitation. “—would join us for dinner. You could stay the night. Perhaps longer, if your schedule would allow it.”

Carswell’s blood ran cold at the thought of his friends and his parents in the same house. Stars, it ran cold at the thought of _himself_ and his parents in the same house for any length of time…He’d cut all ties with the life he had led and the person he had been before Cinder, before the revolution, before Cress, and going back home would do nothing but dredge it all up again. He _couldn’t_ go back home.

“Oh, I hate to say no, but you know how military schedules can be. We’ve got to be in—“He was abruptly cut off by an enormous hand closing down on the collar of his jacket and dragging him a few stumbling steps back.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Wolf growled low in his ear, the deep rumble of his voice not quite loud enough to cover Scarlet’s as she smiled at Kingsley and said very politely that they would all be happy to attend.

“What are you—“Carswell tried to twist out of the older man’s grip, but only succeeded in getting hopelessly tangled in his flight jacket.

“Whatever has happened between you and your family, they are _still_ your family. You have a second chance with them that many people aren’t given.” Wolf paused, his tone dipping from stern down to something softer and…sadder. “You have a chance that many people would give anything to have.”

Carswell flinched, Maha Kesley’s face flashing across his memory in stark detail. “I know that…but this is a very different situation. And even if I wanted to stay—” He raised his voice enough to carry to Scarlet and Kingsley. “—we have to be in Phoenix tomorrow!”

“Well, we’d have to spend the night here, anyway. For…um…” Scarlet’s lips twisted into a thoughtful frown, her eyes darting helplessly toward Cress as she scrambled for a proper excuse.

“Repairs! We have to stay for the repairs!” Cress supplied. Thorne’s lips curved downwards. He’d thought the whole point of having a crew was always having someone to back you up. This wasn’t at all what he’d imagined.

“What repairs?” If they were going to pull excuses from thin air, he had no qualms about shooting them down.

“The aft duct system. It’s…um…broken.” Cress said, one hand sneaking up to twist her fingers in the loose blonde waves that brushed her jaw. Carswell gulped hard, trying very hard to remember that while it was an adorable nervous gesture, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by someone who was currently ganging up on him. “It’s been making weird noises when we take off. Definitely broken.”

“But it was fine this morning—Oof!” Carswell staggered when Wolf released his collar with a huff of frustration. He stalked up the gangplank into the belly of the Rampion. A few seconds ticked by before a tremendous crash erupted from the shadows, followed by the shrill, raspy scream of tearing metal. Wolf reappeared in the bay doors, dusting tiny bits of metal dust from his claws. He locked eyes with Carswell and flashed a brief, faintly vicious smile.

“It’s broken.” His eyes slid over to Scarlet, who looked irritatingly proud, and Cress, who shrugged apologetically at Carswell, but smiled all the same. “Might take the mechanics all night to fix it.”

Kingsley cleared his throat again, his face just as staunch and stony as before, but his eyes glinting with what Carswell might have guessed to be gratefulness and—if he didn’t know better—amusement. “I’ll have Janette make up the rooms, then. We’ll expect you at the house within the hour.” He half-turned to go before glancing back over his shoulder at Carswell, his gaze skimming down to the bright metal fingers. “I look forward to…catching up.”

Carswell barely resisted the urge to groan as he watched Kingsley stride off to the hover parked a few hundred yards away. This couldn’t be happening. Part of him hoped that it was just one more nightmare to add to his list, just a terrible dream he could wake up from and shudder over before drifting back off to asleep…but he knew better. He sighed heavily and shot an offended look at first Wolf, then Scarlet and Cress.

“You do know this is mutiny, right?”

“We mutiny because we care.” Scarlet patted his shoulder as she sauntered up. Her teasing smirk faltered, drawing into a tight-lipped smiled. “Parents aren’t easy. Trust me, I know…But that doesn’t mean you should ignore them forever.”

“Yeah, well…” Carswell glanced across the landing strip as his father’s hover roared to life before nosing effortlessly into the sky and merging into the constant stream of air traffic that blanketed Los Angeles’s skies. “You don’t know my parents.”

“Apparently, we’re about to.” Cress said, coming up to lean against his side, her hand slipping naturally into his. Carswell’s hand tightened around hers as if it were a lifeline and he pulled in a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to steady his racing thoughts.

“Apparently.” He murmured, the tangle of nerves that had plagued him since that morning turning in his chest. No matter how much things seemed to change, some part of them always seemed to change. His father had been different today, that much Carswell could tell from even their brief exchange…but whatever it was that had prompted his appearance and his apparent concern, it wouldn’t last. It never did. All he could do was wait to see what his father was playing at. All he could do…was go to dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been posting more frequently on FF.net since that platform seems to work better, but I figured I might as well update here as well. Thanks for reading!

He had too much to do. Kingsley slammed his hover into park the moment he screeched into the garage. He had calls to make, he had to brief the staff on the incoming group, he had to tell Elinor and Janette…He sighed, drumming his fingers on the control panel. Dinner wouldn't be served until seven—had he even remembered to tell Carswell that? No matter. Dinner had always been served at seven—which meant he had approximately two hours. He'd planned major military operations in less, but somehow this still flustered him more than any maneuvers ever had.

There was a knock on the hover's window and Kingsley swiveled to find Elinor staring at him from the other side of the glass, her designer dress and perfect hair looking completely out of place among the garage's grimy tool chests and oil-stained floors. The hover didn't make enough noise to alert her to its arrival from the house, so Kingsley assumed she must have simply been waiting for him there. Apparently, even the short walk inside was too long to wait for the news. Her heels clacked as she side-stepped to let Kingsley slide out of the hover, and her voice came out tight and anxious when she spoke. "Well?"

"I found him."

"Oh, thank heavens…" Elinor heaved a relieved sigh, her shoulders sagging and some of the worry lines on her face smoothing away at those words. She slipped her hand into the crook of the arm Kingsley offered and let him lead the way toward the connecting door between the garage and the house, her grip on his arm just as fierce and urgent as her voice. "Where is he?"

"The docks, at the moment. He experienced some…technical difficulties with his ship." Kingsley paused then, to give the next sentence the weight it deserved. "He's coming for dinner tonight."

"Oh." Elinor's brow creased again as she lifted her gaze to meet her husband's. "Just dinner?"

Kingsley could understand the disappointment. After all this time, a single meal together hardly seemed like enough. It was a concession, and—given the lengths Carswell's crew had gone to to make it happen—a grudging one. He'd been mulling it over ever since he left the docks, picking apart every word he and Carswell had exchanged and replaying every snippet of their meeting to see if there was something he could've done better. Somewhere between the airfield and his own front gate, he'd come to the conclusion that there were a _lot_ of things he could've done better regarding his son, but that this particular meeting hadn't been too bad for a relationship like theirs. It was a beginning, at least. And it was an opportunity. Kingsley Thorne did not waste opportunities. "He and his crew will be staying the night."

"I'll speak to Janette." Elinor said absently. She paused as they moved through the entry into the hall. "How...how is he?"

"He—" Kingsley pursed his lips, the completely unexplained metal fingers flashing across his memory. If he wasn't mistaken, the boy had looked thinner, too. Kingsley supposed that regular meals would tend to get pushed to the back burner in the midst of a revolution, but it was still concerning. That, and the sort of...hardness that all of the crew seemed to carry. The kind of hardness that came with horrors seen and pain endured that Kingsley saw in so many of the soldiers he worked with and that he had never wanted to see in his son's eyes. No one walked through a war and emerged without it. "—he's well enough. You can see for yourself when he gets here."

"Hm." Elinor narrowed her eyes at the reticence in his tone, but didn't push. "How many in his crew?"

"Three. A pilot, a crewman, and…" How exactly _was_ the girl Carswell was with classified? She didn't look like the women his son was known for consorting with, but she didn't look like an officer or a crewman, either. Nor did she give off the vibes that accompanied such a role. After decades of working in an organization filled with people long on order-following skills and short on brains, Kingsley was accustomed to being the smartest person in the room and knowing it. And yet if he looked too closely at Cress Darnel, that feeling was very abruptly gone. It was unsettling. "...one other guest."

"Well...good. Very good, dear. I'll see that we get enough rooms ready." Elinor pulled away then, pausing just long enough to brush a brief kiss to Kingsley's cheek before she started off in search of Janette (likely half to start the preparations and half to share the good news). "I trust you have calls to make?"

"Just a few. I'll be finished long before they arrive, I promise." Kingsley said and for once, he meant it. Business calls always had a way of morphing from five minute conversations to thirty minute discussions, but that wouldn't happen tonight. Tonight was too important.

* * *

He didn't want to be here. Perhaps if Carswell was lucky, he could steal the taxi and bolt back to the Rampion before anyone from the house realized they were there. Or possibly, he could steal the taxi and just get himself arrested. That would _certainly_ insure that he missed dinner. He sighed as he unfolded himself from the cramped confines of the backseat and stepped out onto the drive. At this point, he would take any out he could find.

"Nice house." Wolf rumbled as he scooped up the collection of overnight bags from the trunk of the taxi they had taken from the docks. Carswell hummed a noncommittal noise in reply, too busy staring at the house in front of him to pull together his usual wit. There might have been a fresh coat of paint skimmed over the stucco and the clusters of palm trees that bordered the front gates had been trimmed back, but otherwise, his home was much the same. Two massive stories of Spanish style elegance, set deep in a lawn far too green to be watered by the fickle California rain alone and framed by an assortment of impeccable topiaries and well-manicured bushes. He blew out a breath. It was as if he'd never left...and he wasn't sure how to feel about that.

" _Really_ nice house." Scarlet echoed as they started the trek up the walk. Her eyes lit up suddenly as they snagged on the single, overburdened lemon tree that butted up against the hedge separating the Thorne grounds from the neighbors' lawn. "Hey, would your parents mind if I took a few lemons for the galley before we leave? Those look amazing."

"Nah. _I_ planted that, after all." Thorne waved a dismissive hand. Dropping stolen fruit while trying to outrun the neighbors' Doberman and forgetting about it until it sprouted still counted as planting, right? Right. He smiled to himself. Frankly, he was a little surprised that tree was still there. His mother had complained for months about how it ruined the balance of the landscaping and his father had growled about the circumstances of the planting for far longer than that. Perhaps they were going soft in their old age.

" _You_ planted it?" Cress arched a brow at him as she slipped her hand into his, her eyes already twinkling with the knowledge that there was more to the story than seeds and shovels. Thorne shrugged, flashing a faint, brief smile. "Long story."

"I'm sure." Cress smiled, but her voice suddenly dropped to insure that the words didn't pass beyond the two of them. "Are you alright?"

"Nothing gets by you, does it?" Thorne murmured as they drew up before the rather imposing front door. He reached out and brushed a hand over the rough walls that bordered it, his fingers catching on the hidden seams he'd exploited for a hundred clandestine ventures back in the day. It seemed like everywhere he looked, there was another reminder of his history. Of who he used to be, of what he used to do, of everything he'd ever tried to forget. "I'm fine...I just want to get this over with."

"Twelve hours. It'll all be over in twelve hours." Cress squeezed his hand, bringing her other hand up to curl around his forearm in solidarity as Wolf and Scarlet closed in behind them. There was a long pause before Wolf finally rumbled. "Are you going to ring the bell?"

"Why don't _you_ ring the bell?" Carswell countered. Not that he would've minded doing it...but arguing was a very, _very_ solid stalling technique.

"It's _your_ house."

"If you ring the bell, I won't tell Cinder you're the one who ripped the manifold of her favorite ship to bits."

"She likes the chance to tinker. She'll probably thank me."

"Well—" Carswell opened his mouth to counter, but the door swung open and a figure launched itself forward as if fired by a rocket. Carswell tensed with the anticipation of nothing good until gentle arms closed around his middle and the familiar scent of laundry soap mingled with maple syrup flooded his nose. He relaxed, a bubble of laughter welling up in his throat as he returned the hug with gusto. This was one reunion he could approve of whole-heartedly.

"Captain!" Janette finally pulled back enough to hold him at arm's length, grinning so broadly her whole face seemed to glow with the joy of it. She looked him up and down before giving a satisfied nod and engulfing him in her arms once more. "Welcome home, Captain."


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't going like Carswell had expected. He had expected to be chomping at the bit to retreat the instant his boots crossed the threshold of his childhood home, but somehow…somehow, he wasn't. He smiled in spite of himself as Janette yanked him into the foyer, her smile just as bright and warm and contagious as he remembered it. In a way, it felt good to be welcomed into a place he never expected to see again. Even if the circumstances of the invitation did make him a little edgy.

"It's so good to see you again." Janette hadn't fully released Carswell since the moment she answered the door, but now she pushed him away to hold him at arms' length for inspection, squinting in the muted light of the entryway. Her eyes were warm, but a tinge worried as she looked him over, her hands coming instinctively up to straighten his collar and smooth down a few unruly strands of hair. She murmured something about how long it must've been since he'd had a haircut and tsked softly over the faint outlines of scars that hadn't quite faded. Carswell stooped enough to let her do her fussing without standing on tiptoe, grinning when she was finally satisfied enough to yank him back in for another fierce hug. "Don't you ever scare me like that again. I was so worried..." She paused. "We _all_ were."

Carswell snorted. If Elinor and Kingsley Thorne had been worried about anything other than the blow to their social status that a fugitive son would be, he would eat his flight jacket. "I find that very hard to believe."

"You'd be surprised. Don't sell your parents too short, Captain." Janette retorted before turning her attention to the others, who remained crowded near the doorway, as if uncertain whether they should fully enter. She nudged Carswell's shoulder expectantly, her smile almost giddy with anticipation. "Well?"

"Oh, right...introductions." Carswell supposed he should probably squeeze those in somewhere if he wanted to introduce the best friends he had now to the best friend of his childhood without a parental audience. Even now, he could hear ominously quick footsteps approaching from down the hall. He swept an arm out in dramatic fashion, indicating each in turn.

"This is Scarlet, the best combination pilot, cook, and mother hen on two planets." Scarlet rolled her eyes at him, but smiled all the same when Janette reached out to envelop her in a hug. "And this is my buddy Wolf. He's annoyingly better at crate-carrying than me." Wolf offered the faint, tight-lipped smile he often flashed when he was trying his hardest not to terrify whoever stood in front of him, then promptly let out a shocked grunt when Janette hooked her arms around his middle as if he were simply one of the family. "And this..." Suddenly, the words were gone.

Carswell faltered when his eyes settled on Cress. She smiled encouragingly, but it was obvious by the tightness of her smile and the uncertainty in her eyes that she was just as nervous as he was. He could understand that. The prospect of announcing to his oldest friend that for the first time in his life he had a real, serious relationship left him tongue-tied and queasy. And the idea of boiling that relationship down enough to define it in words was even scarier. Finally, Carswell reached out and found Cress's hand. "This is Cress."

That seemed too simple of an introduction for someone as important as Cress, but Carswell didn't know what else to say. Cress was more than his first mate, more than his girlfriend, more than an adorable genius, more than a hero of the revolution—she was everything. She was...Cress. Perhaps she didn't need any more introduction than that. And judging by the stunned look on Janette's face as she glanced between their joined hands and the private smile they shared, she understood perfectly. She gathered Cress into her arms with almost the same level of enthusiasm with which she'd pounced on Carswell, prompting a squeak and a frantic what-did-I-do look from Cress at the unexpected affection. Carswell just grinned.

Janette finally pulled back, but left her hands firmly planted on Cress's shoulders. "I'm so happy to meet you, dear." She turned on Carswell, then, flashing a proud, delighted smile. "You two must tell me _everything_ —" The source of the echoing footsteps finally rounded the corner and Janette dropped her voice to a whisper as she stepped respectfully away. "—later."

Carswell nodded absently, but couldn't quite bring himself to pry his eyes away from the figure bearing down on him. Elinor Thorne was moving faster than he'd ever seen her move, almost _running_ as she closed the distance between them, and the look on her face…It wavered between her usual calm, dignified façade and breathless relief. Weird.

"Carswell!" His mother's voice was almost drowned out by the clack of her heels on the tile, making it difficult for Carswell to decipher whether the enthusiasm in her voice was real or manufactured. She smiled cordially, but it seemed...brittle. Fragile, even, as her eyes—were they really misty or was it just a trick of her eye makeup?—swept over him from head to toe. Carswell fought the childish urge to fidget under her scrutiny, to tug at his shirt until he was sure it was perfectly tucked in, to discreetly make sure his boots were shined properly, to insure that everything was up to his mother's standards of appearance. He cleared his throat uneasily.

"Hi, Mom." It felt inadequate as a greeting, but he didn't know what else to say. The last time he had seen her had been the last time he had seen his father, as well—at his trial. And while Kingsley had been outraged, Elinor had just been...sad. Disappointed, perhaps, as she trailed her husband out of the courtroom. At the time, Carswell hadn't been sure if the sorrow in her eyes had been over the loss of her son or the loss of her social reputation. To be honest, he still wasn't sure. And that…that left him wary.

"How are you, sweetheart?" Elinor moved forward, her arms coming around him in a brief embrace. Carswell returned it stiffly, wondering what sort of twilight zone he'd wandered into that his father had invited him home for dinner and his mother _hugged_ him at the door. It stirred up a pleasant thrill of warmth in his chest. A tiny sliver of hope that maybe things would be different this time around. But he couldn't quite let himself embrace that feeling. His parents never did anything without a reason—including welcoming prodigal sons home. He couldn't let down his guard.

"I'm…I'm good." Suspicious, but good. He couldn't shake that feeling, even as he recited the same introductions he'd already made twice that day.

"You look well, all things considered." Elinor said softly, her eyes traveling over the prominent scuffs on his flight jacket before snagging on the flashing metal of his prosthetic fingers. Her face paled a shade or two and she swallowed hard before continuing. "Dinner should be ready in a few moments, if you'd like to retire to the dining room. Your father should join us in a moment or two. He—"She faltered, looking suddenly furtive as she motioned for Janette to have someone take the group's luggage. "—he had a few calls to make."

"Oh." Carswell's eyes narrowed. Calls to make? Now? When he himself had been the one to instigate this whole little dinner party? That was just one more red flag in a sea of warning signs. His father was scheming again. He'd done it before to coerce Carswell into Andromeda Academy and later into the Republic Fleet. He'd even done it to wheedle a more lenient prison sentence than his son deserved and now he was doing it again. Carswell sighed as his mother looped a graceful arm through his to lead the way to the formal dining room. It was disappointing…but not surprising.

* * *

It wasn't going like Kingsley had expected.

He had suggested dinner at home as a peace offering. As an acknowledgement of mistakes made, as a reassurance that all parties were indeed intact after surviving a literal war, and maybe—just _maybe_ —as a chance to start fresh. It had been a solid plan in every aspect—from pestering Janette into whipping up Carswell's favorite meal to insuring that the boy had his crew around him for moral support—and it should've worked. It _would_ have worked, had the mark been anyone else. Kingsley glared his plate and speared a bite of steak with far more force than necessary. Curse his son's stubbornness, never mind where he'd inherited that particular trait from.

While Elinor and his son's crew had spent the previous two courses chatting as if they were old friends, Carswell himself had remained oddly distant. He'd participated in the conversation, of course—Kingsley had the feeling that boy probably wouldn't stop talking at his own funeral—but the jokes were hollow, the quips were sharper than usual, and everything from the set of the boy's jaw to the gleam in his eyes when he laughed seemed…guarded. As if some part of him wanted to enjoy the evening, but the rest of him refused to toss away his caution. That wasn't the effect Kingsley had been hoping for, at all. There had to be some way to put him at ease…

"Tell me about your ship, Carswell." Kingsley said, loud enough for his son to hear over the click and screech of silverware against porcelain, but low enough to begin a separate conversation from the in-depth discussion of farm life in France occurring on the other side of the table. Carswell paused with his glass halfway to his lips, as if startled by the fact that Kingsley was actually speaking to _him_. He frowned before knocking back a gulp of water, then shrugged.

"You saw it at the airfields. 214 Rampion, Class 11.3. Standard specs, though I think Cinder did make a few little modifications—"

"Cinder?" Was there a crew member Kingsley wasn't aware of? He hoped not. He was only now coming to the conclusion that the members he had met were tolerable companions for his son; he had no desire to have to track down and vet another crewman. As for these three, the pilot, Scarlet, was a little loud and outspoken, but she was sharp and judging by the confidence with which she spoke, she was tough as nails. Those were good qualities to have in a pilot. The wolf man seemed to be adequate, as well, and the girl—Cress, was it?—continued to be unnervingly clever. It could've been worse.

"Selene. She still goes by Cinder to the people who knew her before...well…everything."

"I see." The queen of Luna was his son's mechanic. Wonderful.

"Anyway, there isn't much to tell about the Rampion." Kingsley frowned, a pang of disappointment twisting in his chest. He had hoped that broaching a topic so dear to his son's heart would ease the tension between them at least a little. When the boy had been small, he had chattered for hours about Rampions of every class, make, and model, and that had been long before he had one to call his own. There was _certainly_ more to tell about the Rampion. Carswell just didn't want to tell _him_.

"It looked like she picked up a bit of damage."

"Revolutions do tend to do that." Carswell said casually, almost amused as he picked up his fork with a metallic clink. He twirled it between his prosthetic fingers for emphasis and Kingsley frowned. That hadn't been the sort of damage he was referring to, but it was a valid point. A valid point that left him equal parts enraged and horrified by what his son had lived through without him.

"Obviously. I know several excellent specialists in the area who might be able to work on that." Carswell raised a brow at him, the smirk on his face a clear indicator that there was a smart remark to follow. Kingsley scrambled to clarify, a twinge of irritation rising in his chest. It was a familiar feeling and a familiar pattern of behavior—of pushing and prodding and testing—for both of them. " _The Rampion_ , Carswell, not that."

"Thanks, but I like my ship the way it is. It gives it character."

"I see." Kingsley pursed his lips. "Well…I can put together the information for those specialists for you after dinner. I'm sure they would be more than happy to get their hands on such a celebrated ship."

Carswell paused in forking up a bite of salad, his brows knitting slightly at the word 'celebrated.' He narrowed his eyes at Kingsley as if he were suddenly seeing something he didn't like, and his voice seemed several degrees chillier when he spoke again. "Yeah…'celebrated.'"

A layer of frost so heavy it was almost tangible settled between them and Kingsley knew he'd taken a misstep. He forged ahead all the same. "So…have you given any thought to what you'll do once the antidote distribution is finished?"

"I haven't decided yet." Carswell frowned, slicing into his steak almost as viciously as Kingsley had attacked his own a few moments earlier. "The ship'll be paid off by then, so there a plenty of options."

"I happen to know that there's an overabundance of shipping work here in California. Media supply transports, military contracts…you know the sort. I took the liberty of making a few calls on your behalf before dinner." He was rather proud of the number of old friends he'd managed to contact and strings he'd been able to pull on such short notice. "I've found a number of suitable positions in the area for you to look at—"

Carswell's fork crashed to his plate. Kingsley glanced up to find the younger man staring at him with something between shock and indignation boiling in his eyes.

"You _what_?"

"It isn't that difficult a concept, Carswell. You _will_ need a job once this is over." And if Kingsley happened to find him one in Los Angeles, where he wasn't likely to lose anymore fingers or get pulled into any more revolutions, then so much the better. "And with your new credentials—and your new connections—securing one will be that much easier."

"I'm well aware of that and I'm sure you would _so_ enjoy being able to parade my new connections around your social circles, but I don't need you to plan out my life for me." Carswell snapped, his voice rising dangerously with every word. Kingsley realized that the rest of the table had gone silent. Elinor was staring at them as if she had only just now noticed that a fight was brewing, while Ze'ev and Scarlet appeared to contemplating jumping into the impending verbal brawl and Cress…Cress just looked disappointed. Kingsley cleared his throat testily. Perhaps it had been a little presumptuous on his part. But still…Backing down had never been his strong suit.

"I'm sorry you find the idea of accepting a little help from your own family so offensive." Kingsley growled. Carswell's scowl deepened as he yanked his napkin from his lap and wadded it up into a ball to toss onto the table.

"I might not have if you hadn't waited until I was rubbing elbows with royalty to offer any." He snapped, shoving his chair back from the table and standing, his body taunt with emotion. Though whether that emotion was pure rage or keen disappointment, Kingsley couldn't tell. Either way, he instantly regretted everything. "I wondered what you were up to…I couldn't fathom why you two would suddenly be so interested in having me home, but I guess it makes sense now that I'm an asset to your reputation instead of a handicap."

"Carswell, that isn't—"Kingsley half-rose from his seat.

"Don't." Carswell's face had gone stony, his jaw drawing into a tight, indignant line and his mouth curved sharply downward, but his eyes betrayed a measure of hurt that Kingsley hadn't anticipated. That he certainly hadn't wanted. Carswell turned on his heel and stalked out of the dining room. "Find another asset."

"Carswell! Come back here!" Kingsley bellowed after him, but the words fell on empty air. He slumped back into his chair, feeling all his plans—all his schemes and idea and good intentions—crumble into dust around him. He had severely miscalculated that and it had cost him. He slammed a fist on the table in frustration, murmuring to himself so softly it shouldn't have been audible to the others. "Aces, that was stupid…"

What sounded like a grunt of agreement from Ze'ev forced Kingsley to glance up long enough to glare at him, only to find all three of Carswell's crew glowering at him. Cress pushed back from the table to follow Carswell, but paused as she passed by Kingsley's chair.

"I don't have much experience with fathers," Her voice was soft, but none the less fierce. Irritated. Protective. "But even I know that that isn't what _good_ fathers do."

Kingsley flinched. He couldn't argue with that. Fathers and sons were forever poised to butt heads, that much he knew from his own well of experience. It seemed to be a fact of life that they were fated to clash, but he'd never meant for this to happen. He'd never meant to hurt his own son.


	5. Chapter 5

Hallway after hallway passed in a blur as Carswell fled, his mind too busy with whirling thoughts and surging emotions to consider where his legs were taking him. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt as he stalked further and further away from the dining room, passing from the east wing of the house into the west and storming up the back staircase to the second floor. His fists curled tighter and tighter the more he thought about the disaster that had just unfolded and he couldn't stifle the outraged huff that wrestled its way out of his throat. It was stupid. _He_ had been stupid to let himself be fooled by hugs and dinner invitations. That realization burned him all the way to his core. It was a familiar tangle of hurt and irritation and frustration, bordering on déjà vu as it roiled in his stomach and drove him to keep walking a familiar route through the house. It was a route he'd taken a million times before, often while stomping as loudly as his childish frame would allow or bellowing the most cutting barbs his teenage mind could concoct, but Carswell didn't recognize his destination until he was standing in front of the only closed door on that floor.

His room.

Or what used to be his room. For all he knew, it had been converted into an extra office or storage space in his absence. That seemed like the sort of practical thing his parents were likely to do. Carswell skimmed a hand over the access port anyway, and found himself more relieved than he should've been when the door hissed open to reveal his things just the way—if perhaps a smidge neater and a whole lot cleaner—he had left them years earlier.

The lights came up as he stepped inside, automatically adjusting to the soft, warm glow he preferred and illuminating a panorama he had never expected to see again. A massive holomap of Earth sprawled across the length of one wall, the cheerful lights of the cities he'd highlighted for prospective visits still twinkling with all the excitement and promise of the teenager he had been when he had picked them. A fleet of impeccably rendered model ships occupied the transparent shelf above his bed, appearing frozen in flight, while a single oversized model of a 214 Rampion occupied the place of honor on his desk. A healthy selection of holoposters plastered the opposite wall, with various exotic destinations from all over the Earthen Union shifting in and out in a steady rotation.

Carswell released a heavy sigh and sagged back against the door, thumping his head against the metal of the imitation ship hatch. Nothing had changed. Either in his room…or with his parents. He felt thirteen again, as if he'd fallen back in time to relive the same arguments they'd wrestled with then, complete with dramatic outbursts and hasty exits.

And while he was still offended at his father's overstep, he was also…ashamed. Half of his reason for even agreeing to come home in the first place was to prove a point. To make it clear to his family once and for all that he was a different man than the one who had left. Carswell's gaze shifted about the room, scanning over the hidden hatches for contraband merchandise that he'd installed beneath the floor, the well-used netscreen he'd used to pour over his financial status reports, and the tell-scratches at the base of his window from the many times he'd broken in after curfew. They were all remnants of the person Carswell had left behind. Carswell frowned, his lips drawing into a thin, irritated line. Temper tantrums were hardly a part of his plan for the new Carswell Thorne, either, but here he was, sulking in his childhood bedroom. So much for proving himself.

He crossed to the window and wrestled it open, easing himself out onto the gentle slope of the roof where he could watch the hovers cut wide con trails in the skylanes that criss-crossed the city's horizon and catch glimpses of the ships gleaming at the edge of the atmosphere. It was a good distraction. He'd used it frequently when he was young, relishing the thrill that shot through him with every ship that soared overhead and every new dream those ships sparked within him. Carswell scuffed a boot irritably over the gritty surface of the roof. Somehow, it didn't help now the way it did then. Now that he'd seen the stars, watching ships seemed barely worth the effort.

"Thorne?" The sound of the bedroom door hissing open and shut drifted through the open window and Cress's voice with it. A jolt of panic ran up Thorne's spine and he strained to listen for any other voices or footsteps. If Cress could follow him, so could anyone else, and the last thing he wanted was a continuation of the argument he'd bailed out of. But thankfully, he could only pick out the faintest clamor of voices in the distance-if he had to guess, he would assume that Scarlet and Wolf were stalling for him-and none but Cress's in the immediate vicinity. At least one thing was going right tonight.

"Out here." Carswell called over his shoulder, shifting enough to watch Cress's silhouette appear at the window. She gathered up her full skirt into one fist and swung her legs over the sill, her brow furrowing in concentration as she edged gingerly toward Carswell's position halfway between the window and the ledge where the roof dropped off. He grinned and held out a hand to steady her, which she pounced on and clung to for the last few steps. "Hi."

"Hi." Cress echoed as she plopped down on the shingles beside him, tucking herself comfortably against his side. Carswell looped an arm around her shoulders, hugging her close. She followed his gaze up to where the first few stars were dotting the dusky sky and they both lapsed into heavy silence. Carswell snuck a glance down at her face to find her frowning, biting her lip thoughtfully as her eyes tracked the movement of a passing military transport, and braced himself for the moment when she finally decided how to say what she wanted to. "Are you okay?"

"Hmm?" That hadn't been exactly what he was expecting.

"Are you okay?" Cress repeated, more gently, as she nudged him with one delicate shoulder. "Everything happened so fast in there and then suddenly you were…um…leaving. I wanted to make sure you're alright."

"Thanks for the concern, but I'm fine." Carswell waved a dismissive hand. He tried to paste on his default reassuring grin, but it faltered and cracked and Cress just wrinkled her nose in something between skepticism and sympathy. "Sort of."

"You don't seem fine." Cress countered softly, sliding a hand up to thread her fingers through his. "You barely made it through five minutes of conversation with your dad…That isn't normal for you."

"I know." Carswell sighed, scraping his free hand across the back of his neck and grimacing. It was a little embarrassing, actually. He could trade insults with dock officials and Air Traffic Regulators for hours without losing his cool, but a few minutes with his own father left so edgy that the slightest spark could touch off an explosion. _Definitely_ embarrassing. "And I'm sorry. I know it isn't the family reunion you and the others were hoping for, but—"

"No, don't." Cress rushed to cut him off, her grip on his hand tightening with the vehemence of her protest. "I'm the one who should be apologizing here, given that it's half my fault we came at all. I thought…well…I didn't think it would be like this."

"You thought they would be more like Dr. Erland." Carswell said dully. "Good people who just…aren't great at communicating."

"Something like that." Cress replied. She paused, before forging tentatively onward. "Though…I'm not so sure they _aren't_ like him."

"What?" Carswell blinked, his brow creasing at the idea. He'd never truly gotten along with Dr. Erland himself, but at least he could understand him. Respect him a little, even. His own family remained far more baffling—and more frustrating—to him.

"He did the wrong things for what he thought were the right reasons." Cress said slowly, her free hand sneaking up to twirl a stray wisp of hair between her fingertips. She shrugged, glancing back up at the dimming sky. "I'm…I'm no expert, but it seems to be what parents do."

Carswell let out a hum of agreement and pursed his lips thoughtfully, Scarlet's words from earlier in the day flashing through his mind. "Family's hard." Hard to understand, hard to deal with, hard to talk to—just…hard. Maybe too hard.

"Very." Cress nodded her agreement, the faraway look in her eyes and the whispery tone of her voice enough to tip Carswell off that she was remembering her own familial struggles…and their very abrupt, very final end. He wrapped his free arm around her to offer what comfort he could and Cress reciprocated in kind, twining her arms around his neck and curling as close as she could. The tension coiled in Carswell's middle eased a little with each passing second until Cress finally spoke again. "But… please don't give up on them yet. For me?"

Carswell paused. He'd been toying with the idea of rounding his crew up and sneaking off the property in the wee hours of the morning...that would mean the end of that (admittedly childish)plan. And it doubled the likelihood of another skirmish with his father. But…when had he ever been able to say no to Cress?

"For you."

* * *

A soft knock dragged Carswell from sleep, coaxing him slowly back to consciousness. Once darkness had fallen entirely and the rooftop grew too chilly for his and Cress's comfort, they'd retreated back into his room. Neither of them had been thrilled with the idea of trying to sneak to the guest quarters Janette had shown them to before dinner and eventually, the two of them had settled down there for the night. And while Carswell's old bed was a little snug for two, he couldn't say he minded having Cress cuddled so snugly in his arms.

He let out a muffled groan and screwed his eyes shut again as the room came into focus. Whoever stood on the other side of the door, he didn't want to see them. Not right now, anyway. Scarlet or Wolf would only be there either to check up on him or to cajole him into giving family reunions another chance or possibly (probably) both. Carswell grimaced, burrowing his face deeper into the pillows. He was in no mood for either. Though, to be fair, the other option—his _parents_ —was even worse.

The knock sounded again, louder and more insistent this time. Carswell glared at the door. Whoever stood on the other side of it was annoyingly stubborn. Cress stirred where she lay nestled against Carswell's chest, her brow furrowing at the rude interruption, but her soft snores continuing. Carswell sighed, wanting nothing more to stay just as they were. Warm and cozy and curled together, where it was easy to shut out the problems beyond the safety of his room.

He sighed and eased himself away from Cress's still form, wincing at the soft whine she gave at the sudden absence of his warmth. It pained him to pull away, standing and straightening his rumpled clothes as he crossed to the door, but he'd already filled his quota for dramatic exits today. Running away was what the old Carswell Thorne would've done. He cast a final glance back at Cress and smiled faintly. The new Carswell Thorne had expectations to live up to...and promises to keep. He opened the door and began before fully registering who stood beyond it.

"Alright, I know dinner didn't really go as planned, but—ow!" Carswell broke off with a yelp as strong fingers clamped down on his collar and yanked him out into the hall. Janette stood there, pinning him briefly with a look that fell somewhere between disappointment and sympathy before taking off down the corridor with Carswell in tow. "What are you doing?!"

"I have something to show you, Captain. It's important that you see it before you leave." She pursed her lips and sent him a sideways glance. "I assume you _are_ planning on cutting your visit short after tonight's…events?"

"The thought had crossed my mind." Carswell resisted the urge to drag his heels and pout like he had when Janette discovered his risky schemes and his hasty exit plans when he was young. Back then, he'd been pretty good at wheedling Janette into becoming a willing accomplice, but judging by the firm tilt of her jaw, that seemed unlikely tonight. "I doubt Mom and Dad would mind, given how things went. I don't plan on skipping out entirely, though, since…Janette? Janette, where are we going?"

Carswell slowed his pace as they crossed from the west wing of the house into the east wing, crossing through the central foyer and ducking down a darkened hall that he knew far too well for comfort. A thousand memories of trudging up that hall with reprimand comms from his teachers sitting heavily on the port in his pocket and his father's ominous summons still ringing in his ears flashed before his eyes. He couldn't even count how many lectures he'd suffered through in that office at the end of the hall. And he didn't relish sitting through another one now, in the middle of the night, when he was already tired and cranky.

" _Oh_ , no." He scowled, digging his heels into the carpet to slow Janette's march toward the sleek double doors and stumbling when she abruptly released her hold on his shirt. "If he wanted to throw another hissy fit at me, he was perfectly capable of coming up to get me himself instead of—"

"He is not here at the moment." Janette said, keying in the entry code with deft fingers before gliding into the dark office and flicking the switch to one of the antique light fixtures that lined the walls. Carswell harrumphed, but trailed her into the room anyway, absently skimming his fingers over the soft leather of the armchairs and the smooth oak of Kingsley's desk. "But he isn't what you need to see right now, anyway."

She circled to the opposite side of the desk and beckoned to Carswell, her eyes straying hopefully to the neatly arranged holoframes that occupied its right corner. "Come here and look."

"At what?" He said, scratching uneasily at the back of his neck as he moved to join Janette behind the desk. His father's space had always bordered on…sacred. Kingsley always retreated there after meals or on days off, hunkering down for hours upon hours of work and brushing off anyone who tried to lure him back out. Carswell had avoided it unless his presence was demanded and—though under other circumstances he might've relished the opportunity to snoop or possibly to unalphabetize the bookshelves and relieve the candy dish of its dark chocolate payload—being there uninvited felt utterly wrong.

"See for yourself, Captain."  
"Whatever it is, it can't…"Carswell's words died on his lips as he rounded the corner of the desk and the images in the frames came into focus. Six frames in total glowed in the dim light…and Carswell's face beamed from every last one. His Andromeda graduation photo, the shot from his Fleet personnel file, a much older view of him and his mother grinning on the beach. Carswell reached tentatively out to pick up the fourth frame and let out a snort of disbelief. His _mug shot_. He'd never gotten a response when he'd sent them that from the prison. He'd half-assumed they'd taken it as an insult, but here it was. He replaced it carefully, turning his attention to the fourth and fifth frames, which held a selection of smaller images fading in and out in a slideshow. One was composed solely of post-revolution photos he recognized as being pulled from the net, whether from sneaky, candid tabloid shots or the posed photoshoots from the Coronation, while the other was a selection of grainy, surveillance-cam snapshots that even Carswell would've barely recognized as himself if he hadn't remembered the events that had occurred in the locations—New Beijing and Farafrah, respectively—depicted in them.

"Huh." The word whooshed out of him like air from a balloon. He kept staring, unable to pry his eyes away…or to figure out _why_ his father had done this.

"Elinor has a set just like them in their room." Janette said softly, laying one hand on his shoulder. She reached out to straighten the post-revolution frame with the other. "They scoured the net for news of you every day while you were away. Saved every picture they could find."

" _I_ don't even have some of these." Carswell murmured, dropping into his father's desk chair as if he'd been knocked off his feet. Janette let out a smug little sound.

"I told you they worried, did I not? They feared for you when you left your post, they cried for you when you faced your trial, and they mourned for you when you disappeared into the revolution. They missed you. They _love_ you, Carswell." She quirked a brow at him. "Can you really blame your father for trying to keep you close to home now that you're within reach?"

Carswell opened his mouth to retort, but slowly let it fall shut again. He…hadn't considered that part. When his father had announced the prospect of work here in Los Angeles, his hackles had come up. Kingsley's motives had seemed obvious…the control, the jump in social status, the boost to his career. After talking to Cress, he'd considered just chalking it up to the weirdness of parents. Carswell had considered all of them in a split-second of outrage, but…he hadn't considered this. He sucked in a shaky breath and heaved it out again, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. He hadn't considered this at all.

"He has never been good at saying what he means." Janette's voice went a shade fonder and she arched a brow at him pointedly. "But I know certain other people who do that, too. Whether the truth hides in gruff words or smooth ones, it still remains truth…doesn't it, Captain?"

Thorne stayed quiet as he stood, his brow furrowing as he gazed at the holoframes and his lips pursing into a thoughtful line. It was a nice thought. He _wanted_ it to be true, but optimism had always had a way of getting him in trouble when it came to family matters. All the same…he couldn't help feeling the faintest stir of hope in his chest when he looked at the carefully selected photos. He glanced over at Janette, who stood with her hands propped on her plump hips, waiting, and smiled wryly. "And they call _me_ a con artist…You're good at this, Janette."

"I have to be. I've spent the last ten years looking after _Thornes_." She waggled her brows on the last word and her lips curved up into a bright smile. "I trust that means I made my point? And that you won't run away in the morning before your father has had enough coffee to come to his senses?"

"The cut-and-run option still looks pretty appealing…" Janette's smile dimmed. "But I'll give him a chance. Promise." He was beginning to feel like an android whose vocal processors were stuck on repeat. It felt like all he'd done tonight was hand out promises he didn't want to keep.

"A smart choice for a smart man." She gave a satisfied nod and patted his shoulder approvingly as she brushed past him on her way to the door. She paused in the doorway, outlined by the moonlight, and beamed at him. "And Carswell? Even if you don't manage to pry it out of them…they _are_ proud of you. And so am I."

Carswell flashed a grin in return before she vanished down the hallway, leaving him alone in the office. His gaze drifted back down to the desk, gliding over the frames, the embedded netscreen, and a set of carefully displayed medals. Family, work, and honor—his father in a nutshell. That fit, since this was where he spent most of his time. Honestly, Carswell was a little surprised that he wasn't there now, given his father's penchant for late nights and overwork. Perhaps he was slowing down in his old age. Or perhaps Janette had arranged his absence just as she had arranged Carswell's presence. No matter. Carswell pushed away from the desk and squared his shoulders. Wherever his father was now, he would certainly be around in the morning. And no matter how much he didn't want to…Carswell would talk to him.


	6. Chapter 6

"What do you think of them?" Elinor stirred the cream into her coffee with a slow clockwise swirl, watching it turn the contents of the china cup the perfect shade of caramel brown. It was early yet—much earlier than she usually rose—but she couldn't sleep. Not with the air so heavy with the tension left over from last night's dinner and not with Kingsley tossing and turning and sighing crankily into his pillow beside her. She smiled faintly over the rim of her cup as she knocked back a sip. Perhaps if her husband was a little less stubborn, he wouldn't lose so much sleep. Her smile dimmed and a sharp pang jabbed in her chest. Perhaps if their son was less stubborn, none of them would.

"Carswell's crew?" Janette dropped three sugar cubes into her own mug in quick succession and cocked her head thoughtfully as she watched them dissolve. She smiled finally. "They're exactly what our boy needs, I think. Strong enough to support him when he needs them. Smart enough to keep up with him. Stubborn enough to keep him in line."

Elinor nodded and leaned forward to prop her elbows on the rickety table between them. The little breakfast nook tucked discreetly between the pantry and the kitchen wasn't often used by any of them except Janette, who claimed it had the best view of the pool and the garden beyond it, but this morning, the seclusion it offered had beckoned to her. After all that had happened, she wanted time alone to process. But when she had arrived to find Janette already there, with a pot of strong coffee on the table and her hair still frizzy from sleep, it became obvious that she wasn't the only one fretting a little. And since fretting was always easier with a friend, coffee all around seemed to be in order.

"I haven't had a chance to speak to them as much as you have— "Janette continued, shooting Elinor what might have been a reproachful look for not sharing any juicy tidbits she may have gleaned from last night's dinner already. Elinor stifled a chuckle. "—but from what I saw of them, I don't think he could be in any better hands."

"They're good people." Elinor said quietly, shifting to look out at the pool, where the first colors of the sunrise were beginning to stain the water. She'd done her best to keep the conversation on her end of the table to keep from flagging last night when she'd realized how frigid things were on Carswell and Kingsley's end and in doing so, had learned more about her son's friends than she'd bargained for.

She had learned that Wolf loved tomatoes, but hated beets. She had learned that Scarlet owned a farm, but had never been to a high tea (that couldn't continue, of course—she'd invited all three of them to one next month). She had learned that Cress was very good with computers, but a little shy when it came to people. And she had learned that every last one of them cared for her son.

It was evident in the way they'd been protectively clustered together when she came to greet them upon arrival, in the way his name cropped up in every story they told, in the collective glower Kingsley had earned following last night's explosion of temper…they were close. Closer than a captain and his crew, closer than mere friends…they were family. Elinor bit her lower lip at the implication. It wasn't a difficult conclusion to come to. Carswell had been alone. His family had been so far away, separated first by prison walls, then by a raging war, but always, always by their own stupid pride. And since he couldn't be with them, he had forged his own family. One that didn't include them.

She couldn't blame him.

"They're very good people." Janette agreed. She paused, shaking her head incredulously. "For all they've been through, they're very good people."

"Yes…they have been through a lot, haven't they?" Elinor murmured absently, her mind straying from the crew's obvious battle scars to her son's. He'd done his best to keep everyone's attention off of the pair of cybernetic fingers, but that was hardly something any mother—even one as absent as Elinor—could fail to notice. Just looking at them made her stomach twist and her mind whirl with all the awful ways he could've lost their flesh and blood counterparts. It hadn't been a gentle revolution. She had done her best to avoid the most gruesome of the newsfeeds during the worst of the attacks, especially when Kingsley was on duty and in the line of fire, but no matter how careful she was, there were still far too many times when images of snarling wolf soldiers with bloodied fangs, video clips of hordes of soldiers with blazing weapons, and scenes of the twisted, burning wreckage of ruined cities filled her portscreen. Carswell could've been maimed by any one of them, but Elinor shuddered to imagine the circumstances. And yet, at the same time, some part of her wished that he would tell her. Not because she wanted to know…but because she would give anything to be trusted that much.

They fell into silence, then, both of them wrapped up in their own concerns and neither one of them able to settle on one worry pressing enough to voice above the others.

"Do you think…do you think we've lost him this time?" Elinor finally spoke again. That thought had weighed on her the most since last night, rising easily above whether or not his ship was safe enough to carry him, whether or not he'd seen a reputable physician to look after those fingers, and whether or not it was completely safe to travel with a wolf soldier, no matter how nice he seemed. That thought was burned into her brain.

"What, because of last night's hissy fit?" Janette shook her head and took a casual sip of her coffee. "No. No, I don't think so. If that had been the last straw, he would be long gone already. He's going to give it at least one more chance."

"You seem very sure of yourself." Elinor narrowed her eyes at Janette, who merely smiled the blankly serene smile unique to maids with dangerous amounts of experience and reached for the coffeepot to top off both mugs. "You've been meddling again."

"I'm very good at meddling." Janette retorted. Elinor couldn't argue with that. She'd been with them nearly fifteen years now. Plenty of time to know all the quirks and foibles of every Thorne who'd passed under that roof, to know the root of every family feud and the intricacies of their dysfunction. And somehow, she still seemed to like them enough to count them as friends. Janette's smile faltered a little then, a hint of doubt creeping into her eyes as she sighed into her cup. "I only hope that I was successful this time."

Eventually, she closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, as if to chase any such doubts. She reached out to pat Elinor's hand where it wrapped around her cup. "Don't dither over it too much. He's a good boy. And if know him, he's missed you and General Thorne just as much as you've missed him. Give him a little time to cool off, then…talk to him. Listen to him. Spend time with him as much as he will let you, and eventually, things will work themselves out." She pulled back to lace her fingers around her own cup and smiled gently. "You can't fix everything in a day…but you can start."

"I hope so." Elinor murmured. Aces, she hoped so…To have him this close after months of fear and worry, only to lose him again over a few misteps and emotions that ran too high would break them all. And no matter what second chances Janette predicted—or orchestrated—the look on Carswell's face when he had fled the table the night before had been less than promising. She fidgeted with the handle of her cup, a heavy weight settling in her chest with the thought of slogging through a day filled with such uncertainty.

Janette patted her hand again and pushed away from the table to disappear into the pantry for an instant before returning with a ceramic cookie jar, which she plunked in the center of the table. Janette dug out a shortbread, then tipped the jar towards Elinor. "Apéritif before breakfast?"

"If any morning calls for one, this one would." Elinor took two.

"On a more pleasant note," Janette said slowly, between large bites of cookie. "I may know one thing you don't regarding Carswell's crew."

Elinor arched a brow, and Janette continued. "I showed everyone to the rooms you selected...but Carswell and Cress elected to share his room instead."

"Oh..." Elinor breathed. Not that her son sharing a room with a pretty girl was shocking, by any means. She didn't know him as well as she should have, but she did at least know that much. If anything, it was a mere confirmation of her own suspicions, given how close the two of them had been yesterday, how Carswell had stood taller every time Cress looked his way, how Cress's hand twitched automatically toward Carswell's whenever she was uncertain. They were together, in one way or another. And for once, Elinor could actually approve of his choice of companion. Though it would take time to say for sure, both of them seemed entirely earnest. Carswell didn't seem to be stringing her along for a scheme, as Elinor had seen him do before, and Cress didn't seem impressed enough by either the mansion or its interior to be after Carswell for the money. Given her son's previous relationships, it seemed a little unreal...but very exciting.

"If the way they look at each other is any indication, it's serious."

"Yes...yes, it just might be." Elinor replied, a faint smile unfurling. Her son was in love. And that was some of the best news she'd heard all week.


	7. Chapter 7

Elinor wasn't speaking to him, Carswell was hiding from him, and he'd been told off by a sixteen year-old. _Nothing_ was going as planned. Kingsley knocked back a gulp of coffee and slouched lower in the kitchen chair he'd claimed sometime during the pre-dawn hours, when—after hours of pointless tossing and turning—it had become painfully clear that sleep wasn't going to come. He'd never been sure what good parenting looked like, but he was certain that this wasn't it.

All of his plans for this reunion had crumbled around him the instant he'd flagged Carswell down at the airfield. And to some extent, he had expected it. He was a four-star general and four star generals did not earn said stars by being so blindly confident in their own schemes that they didn't expect things to work out differently in the field than they did on the drawing board. Complications were just a part of life, whether in the realm of military strategy or of family reunions. Kingsley had fully anticipated that there would be tension between them—maybe even a minor skirmish or two—but he had thought that the potential jobs he had found would be a suitable olive branch. After all, he had never known Carswell to be anything less than thrilled by the prospect of a new business venture.

And yet somehow…somehow it had all gone horribly wrong.

All he wanted to do was smooth things over, but all he had _done_ was pull them further apart. Kingsley dropped another sugar cube into his mug and absently watched it dissolve. Perhaps if he had thought the plan through a little more before he launched it, it would've worked. Perhaps if he had worded the offer differently. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…He scowled irritably into his coffee and gave it a vicious stir, sloshing a wave of it onto the table and not bothering to wipe it away. No amount of perhaps-ing would change the fact that his son was just as lost to him as he had been before.

Perhaps more so.

A faint thump-thump noise echoed from the service stairwell that ran from kitchen to the upper levels. Footsteps, Kingsley decided, though he couldn't fathom why any of their young guests would be up this early. The house was still perfectly silent outside of the distant tick-tock of the antique clock in the foyer and the muted whispers from beyond the wall of the breakfast nook Elinor and Janette had settled into—Kingsley had originally planned on joining them, but then thought better of it when met with matching frosty glares—and the first glimmers of sunlight were only now breaking through the sickly, gray, pre-dawn light that filled the kitchen. Janette hadn't even started breakfast yet and given that the waffles were always steaming on the table at 7:30 sharp every morning, that was saying something. Kingsley squinted at the shadowy archway that housed the stairwell and waited.

A second later, Carswell crept out of the darkness, moving carefully, furtively, towards the back entrance. Kingsley's mouth went dry at the sight of him, a wave of panic crawling up the back of his throat. It would've been one thing if the boy had stumbled downstairs half-asleep in search of a glass of water or a pre-breakfast snack to make up for the dinner he'd abandoned the night before, but this…this was not stumbling. He wore his flight jacket, his access credentials shoved in the front pocket for easy entry at the airfield, his hair was still damp and tousled from a hurried shower, and he froze stock-still and wide-eyed when he spotted Kingsley staring at him. No, this wasn't stumbling…this was _sneaking_.

Neither of them moved or spoke for a full thirty seconds, an uneasy silence weighing down the air in the room as they regarded each other and waited.

"Good morning." Kingsley said, finally, because it was the only thing he could think of. The only other options that sprang to mind involved either pleading with Carswell to stay or worse, demanding it. Neither seemed appropriate.

"'Morning." Carswell replied, narrowing his eyes at the lack of response. "You're up early."

"So are you." That wasn't too accusatory, was it? Kingsley didn't think so. Even if he was a little tempted to twist it into an accusation. Though his son had always been good at defying his expectations in new and creative ways, tiptoeing out the back door at five a.m. wasn't the kind of response he'd expected from a man who'd survived a revolution. And when Kingsley considered _why_ Carswell would resort to something that drastic…well…he didn't like to consider that.

"Comm from the airfield." Carswell waved his portscreen. "They tripped one of Cress's security measures and they need a crew member to disable it before they can finish the repairs. I was awake anyway—"The boy's eyes went a little shifty at that admission. "—so I figured I might as well take care of it myself."

Oh.

Kingsley felt himself relax a little at that, the death grip he held on his mug going slack and his automatic frown smoothing away to pensive neutrality. That was better. At least Carswell wasn't running away in the dead of night to avoid him, as he had originally feared. He paused, the seed of an idea taking shape. Neither of them was fully in their element here, in the dim, drowsy hours where no one was quite themselves…Kingsley had taken one opportunity already and smashed it to dust.

Perhaps this could be his second chance.

It wasn't what he would've chosen had he had his pick of circumstances to make amends in, but military strategy wasn't everything. Last night's fiasco had proved that. This was looser, more casual, free of the social baggage that came with steak dinners and formal seating…this was real. And this was an opportunity that Kingsley did not intend to let go of.

"The airfields...how were you planning to get there?"

* * *

Kingsley lingered on the tarmac for a moment, uncertain about whether or not he should enter the Rampion's hold. He hadn't exactly been invited in. Given the fondness with which both Carswell and his crew talked about this ship, it felt like striding into the hold his son had disappeared into a moment earlier would be somehow...intrusive. Like barging into a private party without an Carswell had reluctantly agreed to let Kingsley drive him to the airfields—while trying and failing to mask an expression that looked more like he was agreeing to have his fingernails yanked out with rusty pliers—they hadn't exchanged more than three words on the drive over.

"Are you coming?" Carswell's voice echoed down the gangplank, loud and hollow and unnatural in the early morning stillness. Kingsley straightened and took one tentative step up the ramp. That was the invitation he had wanted…so why did he still feel like an interloper the instant his boot hit metal?

"Right behind you." He forced himself to trail Carswell's path into the ship, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Though he couldn't shake the knot of unease in his stomach, there some consolation in the knowledge that he was finally being allowed into some part of his son's new life. It wasn't the catharsis he had hoped for, but it was something. There were so many things he wanted to know, but so few questions he could ask without risking another flare of temper. Simply being here—in Carswell's ship, where he could see how the boy lived, what he did, what he had, if there was enough food in the pantry—would serve to satiate some of his curiosity.

The hold itself wasn't what Kingsley had been expecting. Bare metal walls obscured by stacks upon stacks of neatly secured crates—some marked as medical cargo and others as supplies—rose on all four sides, with the only unique characteristics being the rudimentary basketball hoop bolted to the far wall and the pull-up bar that spanned the space between two of the lower supports. Both appeared to be recent additions, if the shiny new bolts were any indication, but they were by no means the only soft touches amongst the stark décor. A tattered sofa that looked as it had been plucked from a seedy second-hand store hugged one wall and a pair of sturdy armchairs with mismatched legs sat across from it to form a makeshift living space. Kingsley skimmed a hand over the back of the sofa and smiled faintly. They weren't the most opulent living arrangements, but they weren't the cold, hollow, utilitarian quarters he had expected from a cargo ship. It was…cozy. And given the amount of character the Rampion possessed—from the bullet marks on the hull to the best interior comforts a pack of newly employed teens could afford—it felt right. The ship was scarred and threadbare and world-weary, inside and out, but it bore it all with a sense of cheerful defiance. With a sense of…hope. Kingsley wasn't surprised.

The hold fed into a tiny hall with several closed doors that Kingsley assumed were crew quarters and one open hatch leading into the galley before opening out into the cockpit at its furthest point. Carswell was already in the pilot's seat, muttering to himself as he hunched over the console. Kingsley moved to join him, but paused when a flash of movement caught his eye.

A collage of holopics of all shapes and sizes was plastered over the bulkhead, some obviously from grainy portscreen cameras and others grouped in the neat strips of an overpriced photo booth. Some featuring one or two members of the crew posed in front of a panoramic cityscape or a towering landmark and others with all four of them crowded into the frame, their smiles blocking out whatever the photo's backdrop may have been. Kingsley reached out and traced a hand over the shifting lines, his jaw tightening a little more with each glimpse of the life that Carswell had built for himself. Carswell standing in front of the Rampion, with the signed lease in hand, Carswell and Cress grinning at the camera from the grass that ran beneath the Eiffel Tower, Carswell and Wolf arm-wrestling in the Rampion's hold with a group of other youngsters that Kingsley didn't recognize with the exceptions of Emperor Kaito and Queen Selene clustered around them…The boy was smiling in every photo. He'd carved out a place in the world for himself. A good place, where he was successful and happy and loved…and where there was no space left for the family he'd left behind.

Kingsley couldn't blame him.

Eventually, he stepped into the more cramped quarters of the cockpit. Carswell didn't look up from the console he was poking at, his brow knitted in concentration as he keyed in one code sequence after the other. Kingsley sat down in the copilot's chair, propping his elbows on his knees and balancing stiffly on the edge of the seat.

"That's a very comprehensive security system."

"Yeah…Cress's work is the best in the universe." A hint of a proud smile flickered over Carswell's lips as he typed the final keystrokes with a flourish and sat back in his chair. He looked out the viewport for a long moment, his gaze scanning thoughtfully over the first stirrings of the airfield's morning shift as they trickled into the hangars and across the runways, and eventually let out a sigh. "But somehow I don't think you came all the way out here with me to talk about my ship's security system."

"No. No, I didn't." Kingsley paused and wished he'd invested a few more univs in parenting manuals. He doubted that many books on the market covered reconnecting with estranged, twenty-year-old war heroes, but he would've been happy for any help he could get. Conversational techniques, psychological insights…anything he could use to fix his mistakes. But no amount of scouring the net for advice or solutions during his sleepless night had brought him any closer to narrowing down his options. He sagged back into his chair, letting his shoulders slump and glancing away in hopes that the words would come more easily if they didn't have to look at each other.

Apologies were all well and good. Or at least, he supposed they were. His experience in doling them out was…limited. He'd had good luck with bribes in the past, but that had been years ago, when Carswell was easily placated by a bump in his allowance or a limited edition ship model, and Kingsley doubted that tactic would be well received now. He scowled. It shouldn't be this _hard_. He worked with diplomats and politicians every day, for star's sake. His job depended on him being able to say the right thing at the right time, but now, when it counted…

"Look, I'm obviously no good at this—at not least with _you_ ," He said, perhaps more gruffly than he should have. "But I feel that it should be said that I…that I am sorry. For my presumptions, for the argument last night…for everything."

The cockpit went silent and the quiet stretched on until Kingsley couldn't help sneaking a quick look over at his son. Carswell was frowning at nothing in particular, his brow furrowing and the muscles of his jaw flexing as he appeared to weigh the words against a lifetime of actions. Finally, the leather of the pilot's seat squeaked as Carswell shifted enough to lean back and prop his boots on the dash, folding his arms across his chest and glancing over to fix Kingsley with a steady stare.

"Do you just feel that it should be said or do you actually _feel_ it? Because that's a pretty important distinction right there." He paused, his eyes going hard, like a forcefield coming up to shield a ship. "I don't want to hear it just because it's what Janette or anyone else wants you to say and—"

"I don't say anything I don't mean." Kingsley interrupted quietly. "Not to anyone else, but certainly not to you and certainly not about that."

"Really." The boy's tone was flat, as if he was trying too hard to mask what lay beneath it, but…it wasn't angry. At least, not as angry as Kingsley had expected it would be after the night before. If anything, it was cautious, perhaps even with the tiniest hint of hope. "Then if you meant it, explain why you waited until I had three royals and a collection of assorted war heroes to vouch for me and a legitimate 'Captain' before my name before you said it. Because from where I sit, that doesn't look good for you."

Kingsley winced visibly and huffed out a pained sigh. Even he had to admit that it didn't look good.

"That isn't what I was waiting for. Believe me, it isn't even remotely what I was waiting for."

Carswell arched a brow at him, making it clear that there would be no evading that line of questioning.

"It's nothing so ambitious as that…" Kingsley shrugged, the movement awkward for limbs more accustomed to parade rest and military posture than casual chats. His voice dropping to a vaguely embarrassed rumble. "It's merely that even old men take time to work up enough nerve to make amends. Before your…heroics…I admit that refusing to be the first one to make a move was a matter of pride. I assumed that sooner or later, you would come to your senses and come back to us in the process. But then suddenly the war was upon us and you were…gone." He swallowed once, twice, but the lump still rose in his throat. He could feel Carswell staring at him, but looking at his son—his perfectly _alive and well_ son—now, with the memories of those awful months clouding his judgement, wouldn't do if he wanted to keep his composure. "When we finally got word that you were alive, I decided it was time for this nonsense to end, but it just…took some time to figure out how to do it. I do realize what it looks like and I know you haven't been given any reason to think so, but please believe that I wanted nothing more than to see that you were safe and sound. And to insure that you stay that way."

Silence fell again, the air in the cockpit simmering with unease despite the peaceful atmosphere of the empty Rampion and the soft morning light. Kingsley could catch occasional glimpses of the repair crew that was supposed to be preparing the Rampion for its departure milling around outside, casting curious looks up at the pair in the cockpit. He supposed they were holding up the very work they'd come to speed up, but he certainly wasn't about to shatter the fragile moment.

"I saw the holopics." Finally, _finally_ Carswell piped up. Though…that wasn't anything Kingsley had expected to hear. What holopics? And what did that have to do with—"The ones on your desk. Janette insisted that I needed to see them before I left."

Oh. Kingsley blinked, then frowned. "If you saw them, then surely you must've known that it wasn't— "

"Yeah…I knew. At least sort of." Carswell murmured." But I couldn't _believe_ it without hearing it from you instead of Janette." He glanced out the viewport at the tarmac below and the obviously impatient repair technicians, then hauled himself to his feet. "You know, we should probably get out of their way before they come in after us. I know from experience that cranky mechanics are not to be trifled with."

Kingsley harrumphed. The sheer nerve of that boy would never cease to amaze him. "Carswell?"

"What?" He stopped in the doorway, turning back around with an inquisitive look on his face as Kingsley rose to trail him out of the cockpit.

"Is that it, then?"

"It's…" Carswell paused for an instant before a faint smile appeared on his lips. It wasn't a smile Kingsley had seen often. It wasn't falsely innocent or sharply defiant. It wasn't dripping with charm or smooth with deceit. It was…real. "It's a start."

Kingsley smiled back, though smiling was certainly not among his default expressions, and a wave of relief washed through him as they sauntered out of the ship and towards the waiting hover. It was a start. It hadn't been easy—and he had the feeling that it wouldn't get any easier—but it was a start. And that was all that mattered.

* * *

Carswell had never felt more smothered in his life. And while, under normal circumstances, that wasn't a sensation he enjoyed, he couldn't quite bring himself to mind when his mother had insisted on sharing afternoon tea with him or when his father sat through nearly an hour's worth of rambling about the Rampion's remodeling potential without tossing out a single critique. Feeling this comfortable, this _wanted_ in his own home was new. It was different, and all three of them found it a little unnerving, but it was a good start. And it was…nice.

It was almost a shame to leave.

"You're sure you can't put the deliveries off another day?" Elinor asked, frowning as the group piled out of the car onto the broiling tarmac of the airfield and wrinkling her nose at the smell of hot asphalt. Using a taxi had been suggested, but neither of the elder Thornes would hear of it and in the end, six people had squished into a hover built for four. Janette had wisely elected to say her goodbyes back at the estate, and sent them on their way with a tin of cookies and a faint smirk as she watched them try to settle themselves into such tight quarters. Kingsley just snorted, as if the very idea of holding back a military operation was absurd.

"No can do. We've got three more antidote stops to cram in before we have to make the jump to Luna for more supplies." Carswell said, because putting off deliveries for the people who held the lease on his Rampion just to hang with his parents for a few more hours _was_ absurd. But…the sentiment was nice. "Leutemosis waits for no man."

"It was good to see you, even for such a short time." Kingsley said, clearly making a conscious—and difficult—effort to choose his words carefully. Carswell stifled a smirk. It made the words themselves come out stiff and unwieldy but nonetheless genuine and maybe even a little endearing. Kingsley hesitated. "I…I trust you'll be passing through Los Angeles again?"

Carswell hesitated, too, pausing look enough to look closely at his father. To size him up for any hint of ulterior motive. To be forewarned of any hidden agendas. But for once, every line of the older man's face seemed earnest. Clearly uncomfortable, but earnest. That was understandable. The whole situation felt surreal to him, too. Carswell smiled faintly.

"Yeah…Yeah, I think we will."

Kingsley's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, the lines around his eyes softening to something less hard and stern and stony. He nodded his approval, then reached tentatively over to briefly squeeze his son's shoulder. "Good man."

"We'll look forward to it." Elinor said, sliding forward to press a kiss to Carswell's cheek. Ever the perfectionist, she then frowned at the smudge of lipstick left behind and lifted a hand to scrub at it with the pad of her thumb. He chuckled, eventually ducking out of her reach with a grin when the Rampion's engines roared to life behind him. The others had already disappeared into the ship, leaving him a moment alone with his parents.

"So will I." Though the words tumbled out as a mere natural response, Carswell found that—for once—he meant them. It had been less than twenty-four hours since his father had appeared at his ship hunting for him, but it felt simultaneously as if it had been much longer and much shorter. So much had happened, yet they'd had so little time. It was a conundrum.

Still, Carswell mused as he jogged up the ramp just in time for the airlocks to hiss shut behind him, it was only the first visit. There would be more time during the next one, at least if his father had his way. A pang of unease turned his stomach at that thought purely out of habit, but he did his best to shake it off. The idea of willingly spending time with his family was...going to take some getting used to. He slipped into the cockpit and strapped into the copilot seat just as the Rampion jolted beneath him, rising gracefully into the sky. Scarlet guided the ship upwards, banking enough to catch a final glimpse of the couple still standing by the launchpad. Carswell smiled. Yes, it would take some getting used to…but he would give it a shot.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Reviews are always much appreciated.


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